The remark was made testily to himself, for Elspie had gone into the surrounding bush, axe in hand, to find, if possible, and cut down some more small pieces of firewood. When she returned with an armful of dry sticks, he repeated the sentiment still more testily, and added—“If it wass not for Tuncan, I would have been at home this night in my warm bed, wi’ a goot supper inside o’ me, instead o’ freezin’ an’ starvin’ oot here on the plain among the snow. It’s mischief that boy wass always after from the tay he wass born.”
“But you know that poor Duncan could not guess we were to have such awful weather, or that the buffalo would be so scarce. Come now, dear daddy,” said the cheery girl, as she heaped on wood and made a blaze that revived the old man, “I’ll warm up some more of the tea. There’s a very little left—and—and—it surely won’t be long till God sends Daniel and Fergus back to us with food.”
Old McKay was somewhat mollified by her manner, or by the fire, or by the prospect of relief held out, for his tone improved decidedly.
“Try the bag again, lass,” he said, “maybe you’ll find a crumb or two in the corners yet. It will do no harm to try.”
Obediently poor Elspie tried, but shook her head as she did so.
“There’s nothing there, daddy. I turned it inside out last time.”
“Wow! but it’s ill to bear!” exclaimed old Duncan, with a half-suppressed groan.
Meanwhile his daughter put the tin kettle on the fire and prepared their last cup of tea. When it was ready she looked up with a peculiar expression on her face, as she drew something from her pocket.
“Look here, daddy,” she said, holding up a bit of pemmican about the size of a hen’s egg.
The old man snatched it from her, and, biting off a piece, began to chew with a sort of wolfish voracity.